The 68th Annual Hunger Games
by I AM G3ORGE
Summary: Titus, a character Katniss briefly mentioned in the first novel, was a tribute from years past who had eaten his victims after taking their lives. In the 68th Annual Hunger Games, Ferdin, eighteen year-old male tribute from District 10, must compete in the frigid, snowy arena the Gamemakers have crafted for this year's batch of tributes. How will he manage?
1. Chapter 1

**This is the first chapter to this small fanfiction! A fair warning: if you're expecting characters from the novel, you should look elsewhere. Titus, the cannibal, is the only character that is truly part of the first Hunger Games book. Even so, he doesn't really "appear" in the storyline other than when Katniss mentions him. With the little information given about Titus, I shaped what the Hunger Games he had participated in had most likely been like. For example, I can assume it was a wintery arena by the fact that Titus had supposedly died in an avalanche. I also incorporate my own ideas into the story, such as my own muttation, "gripfish". I tried my best to keep this chapter as accurate to how it really would have been, and hope you enjoy! **

**[ As you probably already know, I do not own the ****Hunger Games****. All credit goes to its rightful owner(s) ]**

_When his big brother, Waite, had been struck in the back of the head by the hoof of a raging cow, he was out like a light, face down in a pool of orange dust. His parents nudged him, probed him frantically like wolves scouring the remains of a carcass, and hurried his body inside their cabin. Two hours later he was awake, but somehow his eyes remained asleep. Fer recalled with a shudder the sight of his brother's cobalt eyes, glazed, fogged up like their windows on an autumn morning. They pivoted endlessly, looking for something to…look at, just look at. The blow to the back of his head, as the doctors had said, had caused temporary blindness. The family could afford to pay for the "repair" of Waite. Just barely afford. They made the decision to illegally pay the medics with beef that should have been sent to the Capitol. They would need Fer's extra help now. His parents now looked to Waite, so strong and filled to the brim with confidence and sheer energy, like an antique bejeweled vase on their shelf. He went from herding cattle and throwing bales to merely watching over the stock at night perched on the top of a fence. Fer had taken Waite's place, even though his older brother was as good as new. They were afraid of having to put their oldest son in "danger" ever again. It was with love that Ferdin truly hated those animals. It was so paining to bond with animals that would end up on the plate of a wealthy citizen of the Capitol that didn't know and surely didn't care about you._

Fer's paling hand swept a strand of dirty-blonde hair away from his left eye, its eyelid jumping wildly and protectively his fingernail accidentally scraped across the delicate skin. His reflection bubbled and bent in the gently flowing brook. No, his eye hadn't been gouged out, sliced, speared, or mauled in any barbaric way. It had simply stopped working completely. Temporary blindness? An unfamiliar fuzzy wall of black now sat to the left where the left side of his vision had once been. He wasn't sure what had caused his eye to shut down, but from his past experience with Waite his first guess was the log his head had collided with when he tripped as Lush, a female tribute from District Four, was hurling needle-thin knives at him from her perch on a tree. She's dead now; Titus gored her by beating her with a metallic glove lined with razor-sharp blades.

Titus was the only who had killed anything in the games.

There had been thirteen deaths.

All his.

The thickets and thorns-genetically enhanced to produce barbed, hooked thorns thanks to the Capitol- that had been enduring an arena piled in snow hadn't taken kindly to him either. His face was streaked in small cuts that added up to become a horrible mess running across his face, droplets of blood collecting on the smallest scratch. Fer glanced at the ruby-red, mangled face staring back at him from the water. A trickle of blood slithered down his forehead and took a shortcut through his eyebrow before sliding down the side of his nose. He cursed quietly to himself, the quarrel of mockingjays that had adapted to the harsh icy climate mimicking his weary, irritated voice. Mockingjays, as the blonde male recalled, usually only imitated the most beautiful voices. However, even the jays seemed to be growing bored with the silence occasionally filled by the low boom of the cannon. They were mimicking everything, from his curses to the trickle of water, in which they'd make a gurgling coo in the back of their throats. Fer began to unravel his scarf, tearing off a few of the worn scraps of cloth hanging by a thread. He plastered them to his forehead, cheek, and chin. Placing the largest piece of cloth over his eye, he let out a warm sigh. Fer didn't dare try to wash the wounds. Water was on nobody's side in this game. He needed to drink it to live, but getting it on your bare skin could be an easy ticket to freezing to death in this arena.

A cannon thundered in the distance. That made fourteen. Fer jumped, nearly falling in the brook. A few lumps of snow fell from the bank into the stream, turning translucent beneath the surface and shrinking as they rolled away. A few gripfish clutched the rocks as the water fluttered their small, rough fins.

Dinner.

Gripfish was the nickname given to one of the many virtually useless muttations the Capitol had created. It was a long, silvery eel-like creature with soft gray skin and rough, spiny fins that served as its only form of defense. Their underbellies were lined with countless pairs of tough fins, like the twitching legs of a centipede, which were excellent at gripping solid materials. They were often found, as Fer had noticed, scattered on boulders and rocks within roaring rapids- the one place all tributes shied away from. As long as they stayed wet, gripfish could leave the water and scuttle anywhere. Fer's first meal in the arena four nights ago had consisted of a handful of nuts in a sack he had grabbed from the cornucopia and a gripfish that had been crawling up the trunk of a pine tree. He was fortunate to have found these few that had strayed out to shallow, calm water.

A hovercraft whirred overhead as it searched the white landscape for today's kill, the pine trees wallowing and spraying needles as gusts of air surged from the flying machine. He plucked a knife from his shoulder-sack. It was one of Lush's, having caught in his coat as she threw the horrifying sharp objects at him. This would do. Fer scrambled to a stick, ripping of a thread of cloth from his faded burgundy scarf and tying the weapon to the tip of it. This would easily keep him from getting wet. Gripfish moved with lethargic pace, the Gamemakers were practically giving him free food. With hardly any effort at all he skewered the one closest to him, blood polluting the water like a puff of smoke. Drawing the thrashing fish from the water, he took its life before striking the next one.

Fer had forgotten how disgusting gripfish flesh was. "Ugh…" he moaned to himself as he took the first bite. "I can't stand this…" The male had quickly started a fire, using his holey blanket from his sack as an umbrella to catch some of the smoke before it took to the air like a winding serpent. In this arena, nobody was particularly worried about smoke giving them away. The gray smoke blended in perfectly with the silver skies above head in the arena, and was odorless to a human nose. He took a small precaution just in case someone like Titus was able to see it, sacrificing his blanket's comfort until he got the chance to beat the ash off it. The two other fish were still cooking, the fishs' bodies becoming lopsided as the heat distorted them. Gripfish had small layer of fat that was delectable though often sizzled to nothingness in the fire. What was left was the unpleasant flesh, leathery and difficult to chew, and tasteless. Fer tore a strip of the fish loose with his teeth, nearly ripping the first course of his meal in two. He knew this was one of his few options for food, he could hardly hunt. That was Waite's job until his parents began babying him. It was very quickly after Fer had been handed the job to hunt that he had been chosen for reaping. All he could do was wonder how the family was doing. He was sure they weren't starving, but they were surely devastated with Fer's absence, and most likely soon-to-be death.

After he had pushed the fish down his throat, and scavenged a few extra nuts from a squirrel's hibernation stockpile, he nestled against the largest tree. Now was the time to think himself over. Fer gently scratched his patchwork bandages, unable to resist the itching that made his skin jump beneath them. He couldn't stay here forever; Titus would be searching every corner of the arena to find someone, anyone to stick with his bladed fist. He licked the grease from his lips and lazily watched the fire crack and pop just a few inches away from his feet. All he could think about anymore was the cold, they screaming, teasing, cruel cold.

For the 68th Annual Hunger Games, the Gamemakers had put their heads together and created an arena covered in a blanket of snow and evergreen trees, creeks and one large mountain that rested at the border of the arena where there was a clearing in the forest. For this, most of the cornucopia had been filled by bundles of clothes, matches, and food. There was a very minimal amount of weapons. As usual, the career districts lunged for those first. Lush had gotten her set of knives, a seventeen year-old named Arath from District 2 had literally found a maul. Fer, from District 10, stumbled upon the most peculiar weapon he had seen. It was very simple: a metal ball attached to a chain, like a shackle. It was light enough to carry in his sack. Light enough to swing. He was only just beginning to see how it was used, and had practiced using the weapon the two nights before. By swinging it around like he did with lassos at home in District 10, he was shocked by how far he could launch the weapon. It _could _kill someone very easily if it struck the head, bashed the brain. Killing. He had been trying to ignore it all along, even though it had been happening all around him. He snuggled deep into the numerous layers of clothing he wore, trying to banish the cold's frigid bite. Fer hadn't killed a single person within the first four days. The invisible eyes of the Gamemakers seemed to be boring into him from their desks, he could feel the burn. In defense, the male had managed to strike Arath in the arm with his ball-and-chain, but only that. He couldn't fight, and he simply wouldn't.

The mountain. It seemed like a wonderful place to take camp once he moved out of here in the morning. There could be a cave, a crevice he could slip into and cover with snow as he slept. That was probably what every living tribute was thinking. Probably what Titus was thinking. Titus, he was the true competition. Fer was surprised that Lush had even tried to take his life. Most of the tributes had been trying to keep a safe distance from the male tribute from District 6. The Career Tributes had been chasing after some of the others, but Titus was always following behind. Usually, by the time they found their prey, they found him, standing above their lifeless body.

Titus. Titus. Titus.

Fer wondered about him constantly. "He must be the life of the party to the Capitol…" he muttered in a hushed voice. This game wasn't nearly as exhilarating as ones Panem had seen in the past. Titus served as this game's lifeline, and he sure did make a good one. His memory took him back to the Training Center, seeing the male with a six stitched to the back of his shirt mangle a dummy so hideously with a simple knife it fell to the floor in chunks. Even with the utter strength his had demonstrated on that unfortunate dummy, Fer somehow dug into the male, seeking out the good in him. He had a handsome smile perfected straight teeth, dark, glossy hair, and eyes as green as the moss that plagued his mother's flowerbed. Each time he glanced at his muscular stature he couldn't help but think of Waite, carrying a bale of hale under each armpit and laughing as the straw tickled his sides. Titus actually made a very good impression on Fer despite seeing the scattered remains of the poor dummy that could be him in the arena. He'd grin when he watched other tributes excel in the center, and had even encouraged them when they struggled at different stations.

And now he had spilled the blood of over half of them.

The fire shriveled, and the presence of cold air returned. Fer reached up, snapping a handful of low twigs off the tree he lay against, pitching them into the flames, which hungrily swallowed them. After feeding the fire a few more dishes of twigs, he searched his sack for more food, coming up empty handed other than a festering pear. He grumbled in disgust to himself in the back of his throat, tossing it into the stream where it submerged before rocketing back to the surface as the water carried it away, the pale green fruit disappearing from his sight. The sky was darkening rapidly as night inches closer. The silver sky had become layered in shades of lavender, violet, and navy like the inside of a filled cake. Glimmering stars that once enchanted him as a boy looked like nothing more than golden pox infecting the sky. The anthem rolled in like thunderclouds, and the sky illuminated in brilliant white light as the familiar face of the female tribute from District 7 stretched across the sky. He remembered her. She was thirteen years old. Thirteen. The shyest creature that had entered the Training Center that day.

Thoughts that had not occurred to Fer since he stood on a panel in front of the Cornucopia began to conquer his mind. _A family would be mourning. _His eyebrows scrunched together. _A District would be silenced. _His breath shuddered. _Thirteen. _His head quivered as though he was succumbing to an evil spirit. _I saw her not even a week ago. _Now he was panting. _What life would she have lived if it hadn't been taken away? _Teeth were gritting. His lone eye was straining beneath a wrinkled shut eyelid. _Thirteen. _

With a feeble whimper Fer shook himself, gasping with hands clasped over his ears as though trying to block out the imaginary voices that tormented him. He couldn't like this anymore. If he wanted to live, he couldn't think like this. The male tribute pushed the thoughts sparked from the young girl's death to the side. It was time to turn his back to the realities of the games. Time to sleep.

When Ferdin awoke to the sun in his eye, he was the luckiest man in the Games.


	2. Chapter 2

**Time to put up chapter 2! Hope you didn't find the first chapter **_**too **_**boring. You may have noticed the first chapter starts as if beginning in the middle of Fer's adventure. I planned this, it is not an error. Hope this chapter is enough action for you!**

A Godsend. He had received a Godsend. It didn't come parachuting from the sky from the hands of a sponsor. It was no earthly, solid item he could touch, but whatever it was, it had saved his life.

Somehow, both Fer's functioning and useless eye had burst open just in time to see the edge of a rugged spear pointed at his forehead. The glittering diamond ring decorating the hand which fiercely held it was enough to make him realize it was the female tribute from District 1, standing over the ashes of his dead campfire. Hardly getting the chance to even process that he was awake, he miraculously rolled to the side as her spear dug into the ridged tree bark. With his belongings already secure in his sack, he took off, only to remember that it was snow, not earth, at his feet. Stumbling and hopping like a fox trying to make his way through prairie grass, he was covering very little distance. Fer glanced back to see the tribute with a foot planted against a root, prying he weapon from the tree he had been sleeping against only moments ago. His scarf whipped as he trudged forward hopelessly, the snow halfway to his knees. His feet felt heavy, his legs left thinner than hair. He wobbled, he swore, he practically cried, knowing that this was the end. Waite, his mother, and his father would all get to see him painted red in his own blood as a spear impaled him.

He turned around to face his executor, still staggering backwards. The tribute's sandy hair flowed in a ponytail in a twisted sort of grace as she drew her spear. Before she could throw it, a trickle blood spurted from her mouth and rocketed from her head, spattering across the snow. She folded and fell forward with a hollow thud against the tree, mouth gaping and hazel eyes frozen a horrified scared that questioned her own death. "Uh?" was the only sound that Fer could make as he watched blood seep into the snow. Another tribute, with light hair like his, yanked out a spiked, medieval club from the back of her head, caked with blood and traces of her reddish hair.

A maul.

Arath.

He was saved, but not for long. Fer turned and continued to trudge away as soon as a cannon's roar broke his stare at Arath's smug grin. Soon he had a new danger. His feet grinded through the snow as a ray of hope shined upon him. Arath followed viciously behind, his maul raised above his head. Fer grinned, chortled even. The tribute from District 2 couldn't throw a spear, let alone a maul. FER could throw better than he could. _Keep moving. _He reminded himself, snow crunching beneath his feet. _Keep moving. _He didn't know how, he didn't know why. Somehow, Fer could laugh quietly even as a killer ambled not far behind him. But that small laughter was quickly taken away from him as an arrow whistled past his ear. He looked over his shoulder only to duck as another arrow cut through the air above him, wedging in a branch that sent every bird fleeing from the tree. There was only one person who Fer had seen wielding a bow and arrow, and that was the female tribute from District 2.

An alliance had been made.

Now was the time to panic. That same fear that ran up his spine from the District 1 tribute had returned too quickly. He hustled forward, slipping and sliding as he was bombarded by arrows. One sliced through his scarf with ease, leaving a wide hole. That was too close for him. Fer began to yell something only a true idiot would yell in the Hunger Games. "Help! HELP! Please! HELP! HELP ME!" He could hear the two be him snicker and snort before bursting out into laughter at his plea.

Arath's husky voice sounded like nonsense beneath his laughter. "You're kidding...you have to be kidding! Is he really trying to-?" Fer kept plowing throw the snow, his lone working eye practically shaking in its socket. "Just kill him now! Kill him! Before this gets too embarrassing to watch!" His eye squeezed shut as he braced himself yet again, only to hear an empty twang of a bow behind him. Then, silence.

"I'm all out…"

"All out?"

"-Of arrows…"

"You wasted all of them?"

"Please don't-"

"You little-!" Perhaps it was the thought of Panem laughing at the TV screen that made Arath's temperature soar. Perhaps it was the thought of being beaten by a scrawny District 10 tribute with only one working eye that had him practically breathing fire. Arath's sudden fury had never been so hysterical, so unpredictable as now. The repulsive squelchy sound of his maul being thrusted into the female tribute's stomach haunted Fer's mind. He had killed yet another girl in the short, unsuccessful alliance the two from District 1 had created. He refused to look back, picturing her mashed body was already enough to make him vomit. The cannon cried, Arath lunged forward with a battle cry, and the cat-and-mouse chase began all over again. As if it wasn't humiliating enough the first time, Fer's pleas for help touched every corner of the forest. This time Arath wasn't laughing. His nostrils flared noisily, his arms pumped, the veins beneath his skin pulsing. Enraged for being bested, enraged for killing his only ally so foolishly, maybe finishing the farmer's son from District 10 would cheer him up.

After what may have been an hour of pathetic stumbling through the snow, the trees grew lesser and lesser in number, and the forest opened up into the clearing where his nightmare had first begun, the cornucopia's broad mouth facing the two. Behind it, a mountain, pointed like a shark's tooth, completely void of trees and wintery plant-life The snow was now only to their ankles, powdery and light. Where would he go? He couldn't run forever, Arath would always be following. The last thing he wanted to do was fight the beastly tribute. His senseless screams for help had become whimpers in the back of his weary, scratchy throat. Somehow, he was still running, somehow, his feet were still in one piece from all of the running and struggling. Somehow, he was still alive.

As a hovercraft cast shadows the snow-globe arena, a curved sword pinned to the wall in the back of the almost empty cornucopia caught his eye. Fer's ball-and-chain would never be able to reach the side of his rival's head faster than his rival's maul could reach his chest. The sword could. Fer's teeth gritted as his battled fatigue, growling as if he had gone rabid as he sped towards the Cornucopia. His aching pain seemed to be lifted of his shoulders. "I can make it… I can make it!" He was only a stone's throw away. His adrenaline sky-rocketed. "I CAN MAKE I-" The tribute was silenced by an eerie snapping noise beneath his feet. Fer stopped in his tracks, the heels of his boots scraping the rough icy surface of the ground. He looked down, ignoring Arath completely. A tiny gray crack, no bigger than a butter knife in length, had formed in the earth by the tip of his toe. Squinting, he bent down to get a better look. The crack unexpectedly stretched and zigzagged about the earth, splitting, dividing, and skittering like a jack rabbit. Soon more cracks appear, all linking together and expanding, rippling like the surface of a pond. The earth produced a heavy groan-

-and the Cornucopia submerged.

Gleaming black water rose from the earth in a great spout with a clap and enveloped the metallic structure, lapping its surface and dragging it downwards until it had plunged into the water's depths, leaving only a cluster of bubbles where it once stood. Fer's jaw dropped, a gasp hobbling out of his mouth. This clearing, the place where the 68th Hunger Games tribute's cringed as the countdown had begun, was a massive body of water frozen over with a hard rind that had thinned and melted since the first day. Had this been why the tributes had been put on their panels directly from the hovercraft instead of through underground elevators? Was this meant to be a frightening surprise to tributes like him? All he knew was that his lifesaving weapon had been sucked into a foaming black hole.

Then he remembered Arath.

Fer drew his ball-and-chain from his sack, swinging the weapon side-to-side like a pendulum as he awaited a fate he had chosen for himself by his carelessness. The District 1 tribute had burst into a charge, body rocking as he held the bloodied maul high. Before Arath could strike, Fer swung his weapon, holding half of the chain with one hand and twirled the other half violently. He tried to picture a morning in the meadows where he would chew on mint leaves that grew in a great patch amongst the other grassland greens with a handful of jumpy calves at either side of him, prancing in circles as grass sequined with dew tangled around their legs. Whenever they wandered off too far, whenever they'd get too close to a nightlock bush, in an instant he'd have a rope lassoed around their neck, and lightly he pull them back to his feet. _This isn't any different than a lasso _he assured himself, feeling the shifting his grip on the chain as he twirled the weapon. _Just a little heavier, that's all. _At last he released the moving half of the chain, feeling the freezing metal slip through his fingers.

He missed.

The ball-and-chain had been hurled straight into the ground like an anchor. The impact easily shattered the ice. A wall of arctic water rose between them and slapped them, separating Arath from Fer. The male from district 10 stumbled backwards and found himself lying on his back with droplets of lake water rolling down the side of his face. The sheet of ice covering the lake began to disperse rapidly until it was no more than scattered ice floes gliding up and down the body of water. All around him he could hear nothing but the screech of plates of ice rubbing against each other. Incredibly, he still clutched his weapon. Beneath the ugly noise he heard Arath's bitter voice swearing relentlessly. He was no fool, Arath would never risk plunging in the freezing water to finish his wrangle with Fer. His tone was full of mixed emotions, even sadness. But why? Why sadness? He couldn't have been upset over _her. _Only one person would leave this arena. Perhaps he didn't want to be the one who killed her. That was all Fer could assume.

Fer sat up, his dampened hair glued to his face. He returned his weapon to his sack, his breath misting in the air. The ice floe he lay across was thick, large enough to put a small car on without worry. Good, he wouldn't have to fret about his natural raft melting out from beneath him. The water was practically clear, though the lake looked bottomless as he curiously gazed at his surrounds. A small school of gripfish flashed their silver fins as the passed beneath his floe, spreading all fins at once and propelling themselves forward like a swarm of tiny rowboats. A few of the land mines from the first sixty seconds of the first day rolled through the water as ice pushed them out of their way. Some of the cornucopia's supplies had remained afloat, but out of Fer's reach other than a pair of woven snow shoes. There was no way the shoes would be of any use to him now that he was stranded on ice, but he chose to snatch them from the water anyway, leaving them lying flat on the ice. He removed his sack, sick of the burden of supplies he had to carry on his back.

What would he do now? There was no way he'd be able to jump from floe to floe without falling in. Even if he did make it to land, Arath was waiting for him. He knew it. As he remembered, his small spear was long gone where he left it by that tree. He was sure trying to beat one to death with his ball-and-chain would only make him look stupid in front of all of Panem. There would be no gripfish feast tonight, and for once he craved their rubbery meat. Fer had foolishly emptied his sack of food the night before. After running through snow with Arath at his tail, he wanted nothing but food. His stomach was gnawing at itself, grumbling viciously as if infuriated with him. He picked out a bread crumb the size of a peanut cornered at the bottom of his back along with a handful of nuts and a raisin. Never had stale bread and crumbling nuts tasted so delicious.

Then there was the cold. Then there was getting wet. Fer had combined these things, and now, the water was seeping to his skin. His hands went to his flaxen hair as he wound a lock that had been soaking his bandaged eye since he landed on the floe into a short, stubby braid. Defeated by the bitterness of it, he let out a pathetic whimper, hugging himself as shivers ran up his spine. After escaping three tributes, he had gotten himself into another perilous situation. He didn't want to wait to die, not now. Everyone fears death, even if heaven could be after it. Right now Fer feared more than anyone in the world, and he knew if he didn't do something he'd let his family see how long it took an eighteen-year old to starve to death, or freeze. He crawled back to his heavy sack, rummaging through it one more time. Nothing but a folded pink cloth, the ball-and-chain, a bottle of the creek water, a packet of matches, and a few tiny containers filled it up. Then he remembered the slice of bread he had wrapped in the cloth. Fer's eyes lit up as he quickly unfolded the cloth, revealing a golden chunk of bread. He lifted it to his mouth eagerly not minding the saliva that had already dripped unattractively from his mouth. Before he could bite down on its flaky crust, the image of wriggling gripfish popped into his head again. Those lousy, nitwitted long fish were filling despite the fact they didn't agree with his appetite. Even better, gripfish could be eaten raw, despite the risk of catching illness, though very slim. What did he have to lose?

With great willpower, he was able to make himself tear off a shred of his last meal. Gripfish glittered beneath the water, having calmed down after the shock of having the icy lid above them break apart. Carefully, slowly, he dipped the bread into the water and held it there. None of the mutt-fish seemed to take any notice. He wiggled it, trying his best to make them notice his offering of food. A few fish fixed their dull, unintelligent eyes on it. Only one of them began to swim toward the surface of the water, mouth hanging open. Hope surged through Fer, the thought of possibly surviving made him tremble with anticipation. His turquoise eyes watched impatiently as he allowed with fish to peck at the morsel. Then, he struck, clenching a fish around the fish's slim body. It easily wriggled free, clawing away with the help of its unique underbelly fins. Fer grumbled, now only left with a soggy crumb of bread. He could always try again.

…

The sky was a mixture of blue and tangerine and bronze by the time Fer had given up, nearly driven mad by frusteration. Empty-handed with only a nibble of bread that couldn't satisfy a mouse in his fist, hope escaped his grasp once again. Tired beyond belief, skin gray and raw against the fierce cold, he lay down on his side, giving in to nature. _Maybe I'll die asleep… _he wondered, eyes narrowed and red before they finally sealed shut. _At least I'll be at peace… _Fer's body went stiffened as it curled on the ice like a small animal in hibernation. A sudden warmth overcame him, and he made a crooked twitching smile in his half-sleep. The ice felt like needles against his cheek, but he would numb over at one point or another. Frozen tears beaded his eyelashes, gluing them shut.

Suddenly, he was back home, lying on his back in the meadows next to Waite as the gazed at the pink evening sky, cuddling the soft grass around them, sharing chatter about how their day was, about the live stock, about maybe being able to buy some chickens for fresh eggs next year. The next moment he was watching the sun burrow into the hills at sunset while he made out the plump figures of the cattle, their wispy tails flicking away flies. Like a slideshow he moved again, this time Fer was only six and Waite eight, tussling playfully like a pair of fox cubs as clouds pelted rain from the dust-bunny sky, giggling and squeling with glee as they dodged their opponents' mud pies and splashes in the puddles. Finally Waite tackled him to the ground with a victorious hoot and they returned to their special meadow, chuckling as they toyed with mockingjays and their songs, gathered wildflowers for Mother and paused to admire the pale yellow, white, and lavender skippers that hurriedly fluttered over their heads.

_Beep. _

Fer paused, sitting up in his little patch of paradise. A brisk breeze rippled the pastel green blades of grass. He scratched his head. "Waite… did you hear that?"

_Beep. Beep. Beep. _

"There it is again," he whispered, crawling over to where Waite had been lying. His brother was sound asleep, the goldenrod and red clovers they had collected for the vase at the dinner table tucked in his arm. "Waite…" he nudged his brother, who moaned lazily and rolled on his side, flattening the greens beneath him.

_Beep. Beep. _

"What is th-"

_Beep._

"Where-"

_Beep. Beep. Beep. _

…

_Beep. _

With a shudder Fer awoke. His skin was drained of color, rough like sandpaper. His blue lips quivered as he sat up slowly, weakly. The sky had deepened to a peacock shade of blue, jeweled in stars. How long had he been asleep? Hours? He had stayed alive all that time? That same, shrill beep from his dream echoed across the lake. A small splashing noise came from behind him. Fer turned, hobbling on all fours to the other side of his ice floe. A metallic capsule the size of a bowling ball bobbed in the water, attached to a parachute.

A sponsor's gift.

Ferdin gasped like a child opening his birthday presents, immediately taking the precious gift it from the water. He hugged it to his chest as if to show his thanks, then unscrewed the lid. Inside was a white blanket, folded many times in order to fit into such a small container. He spread it out to admire, having not felt anything softer than the ragged, frosty clothes that clung to his skin in days. Fer wrapped in around him hastily, nestling himself deep into its comfort. This was no ordinary blanket like the ones at home. As soon as it touched it skin its inside began to glow a faint orange, generating an immense amount of heat. Even better, the blanket seemed to perfectly insulate his body. Not once did he feel as though some of the heat was slipping away. It was definitely one of the fine luxuries only the Capitol could afford.

_Beep. Be-beep. Beep. Be-be-beep. Be-beep. _

Fer's head shot up yet again. More presents from his sponsors? No, it couldn't be. Perhaps they were climbing across the sky to another sponsor. The chorus of beeps grew louder in his ears. _Multiple gifts at once? _He thought, thinking the idea too good to be true. It was true. He spotted the stout metal bellies of three more capsules parachuting down from the sky, heading straight for his ice floe. "More…" he whispered out loud. "There's more…" Had it been his exhilarating show with Arath that had made the sponsors take interest in him? Did they pity him as he withered away on the ice? The birthday-present feeling returned to him as his generous sponsors' gifts landing with small thuds on his ice floe. He gathered them into his lap, snug in his new blanket. Gently, he unscrewed the first one, its contents steaming. It was hearty beef stew with small bits of sweet cooked carrots mixed in. The aroma was already making him drool like a Neanderthal. Immediately he began to eat with the fork also provide by the container. He ate slowly, carefully, making sure to not eat away his only supply of food left.

The second container contained more hot food, this time containing diced and seasoned potatoes. Fer demolished half of them before reminding himself to save some for later. The last capsule contained a few of the cute fish-shaped loaves from District 4. Fer had said he liked the saltiness of the District's bread during one of his dinners in the Capitol. Maybe they had taken notice in it and decided to send him some. He moved the half-eaten stew and potatoes into smaller containers in his sack so that he could easily carry them on his back, turning his attention back to the District 4 bread. He picked the biggest one out from the four loaves inside the capsule, holding to his mouth and sucking at its salty crust. It would be best to let the sponsors know that he cared. "Thank you… thank you so much." Frankly, Fer was sick of water by now, and had all the fresh water he needed all around him. He craved something salty. The anthem chimed in the sky as the faces of the girls who had been killed today appeared overhead. He nibbled with thanksgiving at his gift of bread until he finally fell asleep with a full stomach and warm body.


End file.
